


By Night, Love, Tie Your Heart To Mine

by The_Amarathine_Carrion



Series: Omega Sylvain Week 2020 [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gay Cowboys, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mention of major character death, Omega Claude, Omega Sylvain, Omega Verse, Pining, angsty Sylvain is a given, this is really just gay cowboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Amarathine_Carrion/pseuds/The_Amarathine_Carrion
Summary: “Meet me by the stables later”, Claude had whispered, slinking an arm over the back of his neck, “when the moon is at its highest point in the sky.”
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Series: Omega Sylvain Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728082
Comments: 9
Kudos: 76
Collections: Omega Sylvain Week





	By Night, Love, Tie Your Heart To Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Omega Sylvain Week Day 3 - prompt: clothes

The chaos of war is a Margrave’s lullaby. House Gautier’s wealth is stored in the ditches they dig— their strength in the dirge. That is what Sylvain’s father would tell him in lieu of a bedtime story until he was old enough to begin writing his own. 

It didn’t make sense to Sylvain then. He wasn’t allowed to dream of such a future even if he desired it. Crest bearing Omegas are raised for fostering relationships between houses; the only qualification they need is their fertility. Any training they’d accord consists of only the qualities sought after for successful courtships. At least, that is their fate in Faerghus. 

Sylvain was born into this and resigned early to the expectations of his society. He was intended to inherit, but never to fight. His fortune was to be a wife, not a Margrave. 

His father made a difficult decision in breaking tradition to send Sylvain to Garreg Mach when he abandoned Miklan as his son. Sylvain made another when he galloped across the territory of Galatea into Daphnel of the Leicester Alliance.

Omegas aren’t supposed to wield relics. They aren’t supposed to besoil their bodies with burns and scars. They aren’t supposed to defect from their families, much less forfeit loyalty to their country. 

His father was wrong, and perhaps Sylvain was— _ is _ —too. There’s no lullaby to take with you where you walk the line of corpses. There’s no song to soothe your soul when you bury your friends.  _ Graveyards _ are the responsibility of the living to keep, not the  _ dead _ . 

Dimitri didn’t understand that. Sylvain saw how hopeless it was to convince him otherwise when Edelgard’s mask was revealed and he readily crushed a man’s face beneath his hand. Claude found Sylvain weeping by the greenhouse, silently slipping his hands under the scarlet umbrage to settle his worries. He pressed a handkerchief to the Omega’s cheek, humming an unfamiliar melody until Sylvain’s trembling fingers met the warmth there.

_ “I know a man of fine taste when I see one. Keep it for a while. I’ll come collect later.” _

After all the tales Sylvain spun for women, he supposes it’s fitting that he’d found himself tangled in another spider’s web. It only took one tender touch from the leader of the deer to turn his heart from a rusted fragment into a radiant prism. 

Sylvain begged Felix to come with him. He threw himself to his knees and practically prayed. He even brought Ingrid along to argue; she had surprisingly sided with his logic. 

_ “Stand up, Sylvain. Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll make my own way. Not yours, and certainly not the Boars.”  _

Yet Felix fell alongside the King he scorned, arms outstretched in Dimitri’s direction from hundreds of feet away. Hilda brought back a lock of his hair and the shattered remains of his sword, still bloodied and smelling of _ campfire, pine needles, cardamom.  _ There was nothing to be gathered from His Highness’ mutilated body that wouldn’t make his stomach turn, but Sylvain returned to lay Felix beside him so he could memorize their faces together before they were added to the pile. Ingrid discovered a tie stashed in the looping of his belt and she halved it, replacing the elegant ribbons in her hair with the harsh, tawny, leather. 

If not for Claude’s forehead pressing against his shoulder, his hands separating the seams of his grief—tracing the calluses on his palms—Sylvain doesn’t know where he’d end up. As it was, guilt was something that swallowed him, battle after battle, day after day. 

The stress of it severely delayed his heats. Sylvain grew accustomed to the absence, celebrated it even. It wasn’t too unusual; all of the Omegas who were willing to fight took suppressants as it was. 5 years without a week of the intolerable burning and dizziness and  _ want, ache, need,  _ was one of the few benefits he gathered from an otherwise poor harvest. He couldn’t stop to contemplate a future where he created life, even if there was the glimmer of a potential mate, not when there were still people here he needed to fight to protect.

The idea of his father never being able to use him in that way, at least, gave him a shred of satisfaction. 

Sylvain left his inheritance behind when he left Gautier and found new riches in a man that smelled so much like Felix— so much, and yet not at all the same. The deep citrusy pine was smokier, with less of a bitter tang. Campfire was replaced by the flames of the hearth. Instead of cardamom he was cinnamon, specifically the dusting of sugared spice on the top layer of Sylvain’s favorite pastry— one that he misses dearly from the days Mercedes would hand them out from her basket to have with his morning tea.

Felix hadn’t presented before they left, but the canines exposed by his death snarl were undeniably Alpha. Claude, on the other hand...

Claude was an Omega. Like him.

There’s another thing Sylvain left behind— the bindings of denying a marriage in which he could not breed. He allows himself to dream again. He accepts Claude on his word that he intends to court him.

_ “After we win control of the Impregnable Fortress, I’ll buy you dinner. I’ve been meaning to collect that handkerchief for some time now, I’ll have you know.” _

* * *

  
The taking of Fort Merceus was devastating. Something that didn’t feel like a loss or a victory. 

Sylvain did his best to avoid the spots Linhardt and Caspar were assigned to defend, directing his men toward the Death Knight instead. He was fully prepared for the likelihood that he would fall there; war by now had taught him that sometimes it’s a sounder decision to die than to kill. 

His resolve hadn’t mattered. Those massive arrows of light from the sky demolished the entire foundation before they got the chance to celebrate— taking the lives of all those left within it. 

He had almost defied orders— almost urged his horse back inside to try and gather his two former classmates during the retreat of the Imperial army. He wouldn’t have made it in time, he knows, but he would have  _ tried _ . Claude saved his life by grabbing him and insisting they ride his Wyvern back to the Monastery.

Even now, after all the bloodshed on Gronder Field, Sylvain’s heart doesn’t want to accept what his mind’s already assigned as his duty. Bernadetta’s scorched screaming suffocates him whenever he tries to revisit the scraps of her stories stashed in the crannies of her room. She’ll never finish them. He’s not certain he can or should attempt to do it in her stead. The three fledgling eagles were so close. To enter such a sacred world without their permission isn’t right. 

Albinean berry tea likely stained the floorboards, as even years later he can taste it in the musty air. Other, more significant scents, have long since faded, but Sylvain can imagine them— he can pretend. 

He remembers Caspar smelling like sunrise dewdrops on freshly cut grass, despite all the sweat from their vigorous training. Linhardt carried with him the gilded spine of just minted books and primrose— wafting when the moon hit it’s center just right. Bernadetta was the richest of them all: dark cocoa beans, a spoonful of cloves, and expertly steeped saffron. Sylvain pulls the uneven fabric he found on the chair by the corner closer to his nose to chase it. The jagged edges dangle, tickling his chin. Nothing else clings there besides his sorrow and frustration. This fragment of her scarf isn’t even long enough to wrap once around his neck. 

He stuffs it in his back pocket and gently closes her door, wandering past the pond, through the vacant marketplace— until he reaches the point where Claude suggested they meet.

The Garland Moon gives Fodlan a full month of the hottest nights and clearest skies. Tonight, though, fog covers all but the slightest sliver of the heavens. It’s a familiar sight to Sylvain; the lack of light and warmth reminds him of home. It’s something concrete to depend on, if not outright comforting. He rubs his eyes as he drags them from their upturned gaze, blinking the spots away and tapping his foot. Absently, he reaches out to stroke the mane of the nearest stallion. 

Sylvain has been waiting for this moment for a long time. A very long time. More than 5 years of waiting, if he’s being honest. 

_ “Meet me by the stables later” _ , Claude had whispered, slinking an arm over the back of his neck,  _ “when the moon is at its highest point in the sky.” _

The leader of the Golden Deer was late. Probably. The moon looks pretty high from here, but it’s kind of hard to tell. It’s not like Sylvain actually knows what time it is— or expected any less. 

Sylvain brushes his fingers on the spot Claude touched, pressing his palm flat where he lingered, and ponders how it will feel to openly hold the Almyran’s hand with his own. 

Soft whinnying calls him back from his daze. He wasn’t aware that he had leaned so far inside to rub the Stallion’s ears. The top half of the stable hatches are left ajar here in the summer, to allow for the pleasant breeze. They could never do that in Gautier. Any windows or doorways they owned were just for show. He never remembers them opened for more than the moment someone needed to squeeze through. 

“You came.” A relieved voice rescinds his reverie. “I’m glad you did. My mind might have accepted your refusal, but my heart sure wasn’t prepared for it.”

Sylvain’s pulse quickens. He keeps his back to the charmer and licks his lips, feeling too dry and tight in his throat to give a proper answer. 

“Your heart?” He chuckles. “C’mon, Claude. I know you’re confident in your thievery, but don’t expect me not to notice when you steal a guy’s lines and use them against him.” 

It’s not quite what he meant to say, but okay. His head hurts and nothing makes sense anyway. 

The rustle of Claude’s cloak attracts his ears before his words do.“I’m not— although, a tongue as slick as yours definitely piqued my interest.” Sylvain focuses on the ripple of their clothing in the wind, breathing even and slow— _ shallow _ — but even and slow. “I—uh—actually asked you to meet me here so I could give you something.” 

He lowers his hand from the horse’s mane at this, turning around. Claude stands no less than a few feet before him, but Sylvain cannot back away without pressing the entirety of his body against the splintered wood. He suddenly feels incredibly dizzy. His cheeks run hot enough to burn under the Master Tactician’s gaze; the twinkling of those viridian thickets ensnare him. Claude’s cold, calculated eyes never give anything away. They draw Sylvain in over and over again and he takes the bait— begs for the hook to leave scars by the Cheshire smile of his charade.

The handkerchief is bursting out of the lining of Sylvain’s chest pocket, ready for him to hand over at Claude’s behest.

“I thought it was me who had something to give you.” Sylvain says as steadily as he can. His knees are weak now. Great. The Goddess sure picked the best moments for him to repent for all the times he’s broken a maiden’s heart.

“You do.” Claude nods enthusiastically, a hint of gentle humor gleaming in the pair of polished emeralds.”It’s kind of a packaged deal. A two for one.”

Sylvain’s cheeks are sure to give him away now, even with most of the light absent from the sky. His fingers twitch with a yearning to cover them. He leans against the stable, trying to appear collected— as if he didn’t feel like he was seconds away from passing out.

“Tell me about it. I’m all ears.”

Actually, his ears were ringing lightly now.  _ Huh.  _ That hasn’t happened in a while. 

It feels like a bad sign. Sylvain tries to remember why. It’s complicated, because now Claude has parted his lips to speak again, and the little moisture that gathers in between them looks better than all the feasts he’d attended in Fodlan. 

Claude retrieves a small, shimmering item from the waistband of his robe. 

Instead of elaborating, he poses a question. “Do you still have my handkerchief?”

Sylvain blinks, wordlessly reaching for the faded yellow square that clashed horribly with his hair. He waves it in front of their faces, regretting the movement when he leers forward. His body feels thick and sloshy, a little like soup that was tipping toward the edges of a bowl.

“Woah there! You okay?”

Claude is there in a flash, cool palm sizzling against the sauna that’s settled into his forehead. His other hand wraps around his waist, arching Sylvain into him.

“Yeah…” Sylvain pants. He runs the handkerchief loosely gathered between his fingers against the side of Claude’s face. Even with it separating their skin, he’s electrified. “Here it is.”

Claude’s palm pushes higher, disturbing his bangs. A concerned hum dies in the vibration of his pursed lips. Sylvain nudges back against it, instinctively loosing a low whine.

“Your heat’s here.”  _ Claude’s declaration sounds so far. _ “Of course it is. I’ll bring you to the infirmary.” 

“No!” Sylvain stammers, letting the handkerchief fall into the dust when he fists the front of the Leicester leader’s shirt. “ _ I’m fine. _ It’s fine. I want— It’s your turn...” 

Claude frowns, helping him to lean back against the stable. The hand on his head is becoming uncomfortably stifling. Sylvain groans and turns his face to the side in an attempt to shake it off. Claude only follows him, pressing closer. Their chests meet and he gasps.

“Sorry! I’m sorry… I shouldn’t—”

“It’s okay.” Claude’s breath invades his ear. Sylvain longs for it to be on his tongue— on his neck. “I’ll give this to you, but only if you promise to come with me afterward so I can take care of you.”

“Promise.” Sylvain groans. “Trust me, I want to go with you.” 

There’s a jangle he knows to be from Claude’s golden earring that breaks through the waterlogged effect spreading under his skull. Sylvain’s eyes are heavy, and he doesn’t want to take them off of Claude’s face, so he’s surprised upon feeling cool fabric smother the scorch of his exposed wrist.

Claude lifts his hand up until it’s right between their gaze.

“This fabric— it’s from my country. It’s very important to me, and—I hope—you.”

Sylvain absorbs as much of the gift as he can through his bleary vision. It’s sturdy but also silken; a bright blue. The glow of golden veneer at the corners is unlike anything he’s seen in Fodlan. He brushes against it another time with a pleased sigh.

“I’m relieved to see you accept.” Claude’s lips are perched  _ just  _ over his knuckles, exhales ghosting kisses across each one as he explains the significance. “I’ve been working on it for a while now. It’s tradition that we weave mating ties from our own unique materials. It requires us to know our mate well enough to pick out designs they’d personally enjoy.” 

A nervous laugh rips through Sylvain as well as an involuntary shudder. His head clunks back against the wood, but he doesn’t focus on that pain—not when Claude is right here, but a foot from his face, asking to take him as his mate—to bond, even, and yet—he’s still not kissing him. 

He curls a finger down into the dip of the Almyran’s collar and tugs lightly, as if he had the strength to pull  Claude flush against his body and wreck every wretched part of him with such a small, single action. “You proposing to me?  _ Heh _ . What happened to dinner?”

Claude comes though, and he fits against him more perfectly than Sylvain could have imagined. Here is the piece of the puzzle that’s been missing from his center for all of his years. Without it, the image was unclear. 

His lips are on him now, kissing across his forehead and down his face. Claude is slow and deliberate, stopping to make promises along the way of his descent, and it’s  _ agonizing _ .

“I still want dinner. I want to find Rhea and kick Edelgard off of her throne. I want to unite Fodlan, and share all of that with you.”

Sylvain cuts the pretenses and starts mouthing at Claude’s neck, pulling the cravat loose as best he can with his shaking hands now that he is certain his mate will not let him fall. 

“Not sure I want to share you, Claude.”  
  


He doesn’t care that they’re in public. He doesn’t care about the mess of politics it could create if they were to be caught by one of their old classmates. In fact, he wants it to happen— wants the satisfaction of flaunting that Claude is  _ his _ . (perhaps Lorenz should find them. He always enjoyed flustering the histrionic noble.)

“I’m greedy that way.” 

Claude moans softly, running the foreign silk across the Paladin’s wrist again. He nibbles the shell of Sylvain’s ear and Sylvain  _ keens,  _ twisting his fingers in the fabric of the Almyran’s shirt. He lays his cheek on his shoulder, panting, presenting his gland, pleading for deliverance. He’d let Claude take him like this. He’d let Claude take him however he wanted, as many times as he wanted. His only condition was that Claude  _ do it now.  _

“There’s nothing of mine you can’t have.” Claude loops the fabric under Sylvain’s wrist and pinches it into a ball at the top of his hand, raising it again to cup at the side of his cheek. “Let me show you. Let me tie this around your wrist and call you mine.”

He’s waiting for a confirmation that has come hundreds of times already. Sylvain has given him his heart in dozens of scenarios: little smiles over the dying embers of a bonfire, a brush of the knee as they sit close on the benches caring for their weapons, scars in the crease of his shoulder he collected from intercepting arrows that would have clipped the wings of Claude’s Wyvern. He’s positive Claude has seen all of these, yet the other Omega still wants to hear him profess how deep his desire runs before he ties them together forever. Tears well in Sylvain’s eyes at the mere concept of such intimacy.

“ _ Yes.”  _ He rasps, letting the bitter liquid leak down the angles of his face without shame. “Do it.  _ Hurry _ .”

He barely notices the pressure of Claude’s deft fingers working the fabric into a secure arrangement, tying it a second, a third, a fourth time, because  _ finally  _ Sylvain is tasting him for the  _ first _ time— fire and marmalade and that mild hint of spice that makes his head swim. He’s drowning in it, Claude is consuming him, sucking both water and air and sorrow from the sieve of his open mouth.

“ _ Claude.”  _ It feels like he’s going to scream, but he can only whisper. He’s never sounded so hoarse. “Claude, take me— take care of me,  _ please _ .” 

Claude hoists him into his arms like he weighs nothing. Sylvain has studied his relic, and he knows how heavy Failnaught is. It shouldn’t surprise him, yet nestled here he feels as delicate as a decades old bowstring— seconds from snapping. 

“Call me Khalid.” The request tickles the sweaty strands of his scalp before his mate begins to move them away from the shelter of the stables. Sylvain shuts his eyes and lets go, surrendering to the gentle, steadying waves of the voyage Khalid has promised to take him on. “Nobody here but you knows yet, but that’s the name I was born with. When I bring you to Almyra, that’s what you’ll hear.” 

“Khalid.” Sylvain breathes it like psalm, digging his nose into the alcove of the partially bared chest. His Khalid. His mate. His  _ King.  _

“But first,” Claude raises him to his chin as he begins to navigate the stairs to the second floor. “let’s take care of this heat.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thefriedpipes)! Come talk more about fe3h with me 🤗


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